Removable Scars
by magickmoons
Summary: Dean couldn't sleep that first night in the alternate world of The French Mistake. It just wasn't his world - a fact driven home when he stumbles onto some set memorabilia that Jared had laying around.


**Removable Scars**

 **Genre:** drama, character study  
 **Character:** Dean (allusion to Sam/Ruby or Sam/Gen)  
 **Summary:** Dean couldn't sleep that first night in the alternate world of _The French Mistake_. It just wasn't his world - a fact driven home when he stumbles onto some set memorabilia that Jared had laying around.  
 **Note:** Script excerpt pulled from _Dark Side of the Moon_ , written by Andrew Dabb and Daniel Loflin.

* * *

 **Removable Scars**

Dean couldn't sleep. It wasn't the couch; that was plenty comfy. Soft cushions, no stale hotel smell, big enough even for his moose of a brother who had disappeared upstairs as soon as fake-Ruby got home.

But no, it _was_ the couch. And this house, the damn Alpaca ( _seriously, what the fuck, fake-Sam?_ ), this whole damn world that wasn't theirs. He angrily pushed to his feet, shuddering when his eyes caught the enormous pictures of Ruby ( _sorry,_ Genevieve _, but nope, not taking my eyes off you for a minute, except I have and I am, 'cause Sammy is up there with you doing god only knows what_ ).

They had to get the hell back to their own fucked up world ASAP.

Giving sleep up for a lost cause, Dean started poking around 'Jared's desk. The guy was an actor and a total flake, on top of that; he must have a bottle or two stashed somewhere.

The second drawer he opened revealed a pile of old scripts and several file folders. Dean picked up one of the scripts and flipped through the pages.

 _CASTIEL: Maybe… maybe Joshua was lying._

 _The brothers look at him. Dean already has on his jacket; his bag is packed._

 _SAM: I don't think he was, Cas. I'm sorry. (He sighs.)_

 _Dean watches as Castiel moves into the entryway. Castiel looks up._

 _CASTIEL: You son of a bitch. I believed in…_

 _Dean looks as if he wants to approach Castiel. Castiel searches above for any sign, anything… There is nothing. He turns back to the brothers, looking at Dean. He pulls the amulet from his pocket._

 _CASTIEL: I don't need this anymore._

 _Castiel tosses it to Dean who shakes it out so we can see what it is._

 _CASTIEL: It's worthless._

 _Castiel turns away._

 _SAM: Cas. Wait._

 _The sound of wings is heard and Castiel is gone. Sam tosses his shirt on the bed angrily. Dean hasn't looked up from the amulet in his hands._

 _SAM: We'll find another way. We can still stop all this, Dean._

 _DEAN: (finally looking up) How?_

 _SAM: I don't know, but we'll find it. You and me, we'll find it._

 _Dean doesn't look like he believes him and Sam knows it. Dean picks up his bag and walks past Sam without saying anything. He doesn't even look at Sam. At the door he pauses and drops the amulet in the trash._

He threw the pages back into the drawer, his stomach roiling at seeing his life, his thoughts, his words in plain black and white, with little handwritten notes on what Sam was thinking and feeling in reaction scattered across the page. Like it was all that simple.

 _Need alcohol, now._

Back on his feet, he started opening cabinets at random, anything he found, not caring about the noise. This house was huge, they wouldn't hear him anyway.

 _Jackpot._

The liquor cabinet was a little too near the Ruby pictures, so he just grabbed the first bottle he recognized and retreated to the desk chair. A deep draw straight from the bottle and there was that familiar burn. He closed his eyes and let the warmth spread through his chest, felt it relax his muscles ever so slightly, and he sighed in relief.

 _At least, alcohol's the same here._

When he got past the feeling that he was going to lose it any second now, he opened his eyes, careful to keep his focus trained on the desk. A photo peeked out from one of the folders - a photo of him.

He spun the folder around so he could read the label: **Makeup Concepts/Injuries/Dean and Sam**.

 _What the actual fuck?_

The whiskey burned on the way down, but it was enough to convince him to open the folder. He pushed the hand-drawn sketches and notes aside, concentrating on the photos. He awkwardly sorted through them one-handed, the other hand worthily occupied with supplying enough liquor to dull the surreality of this whole thing.

They were all pictures of him and Sam, some separately, some together, showing of varying types of 'injuries' - scars, cuts, bullet wounds, bruises across their faces and torsos. Of course, it wasn't actually him and Sam, it was 'Jared' and 'Jensen.' Hell, the actors were even mugging for the camera in a couple of the shots.

And then ... there was the Jensen Ackles Baseline Pic - smooth, perfect skin proudly displayed bare to the waist, eyes clear and bright, a hint of a careless grin playing along his lips. Dean stared at it for a minute before sliding it next to one of a knife wound he had sustained about a year ago. He slipped a hand under his shirt and ran his fingers over the raised ridge of skin over his ribs. That was his, forever. They all were - the burns, the scars, the joints that hadn't healed quite right. He didn't get to peel them off at the end of the day, wash them down the drain, and start new the next morning.

The baseline picture taunted him. If he really tried, he could just about remember seeing himself in the mirror looking untouched like that. Maybe when he was 13? 12? Maybe younger. He'd kind of stopped looking in the mirror sometime around 16. It didn't really matter what he thought. Chicks dug scars, at least the kind that were likely to fall into bed with the stranger who just blew into town. And if they didn't, well, fuck it. It wasn't like he wouldn't be gone in a week or two.

With a snarl, he shoved the photos back into the folder and flipped it closed, pretending his hands weren't shaking. Eyeing the bottle regretfully, he took one last swallow and recapped it; he'd need all his wits to get the fuck out of this bizarro world. There was a muffled thud when he set the bottle down on top of the folder. He stumbled over to the couch, trying his best to fall asleep before his head hit the cushion.


End file.
